


A Thousand Ways I've Loved You

by NovelistAngel23



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Monster Hunters, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Body Paint, Canon Universe, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, JeanMarco Week, M/M, Modern Royalty, Non-Explicit Sex, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 19:25:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4932316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovelistAngel23/pseuds/NovelistAngel23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of oneshots in honor of JeanMarco Week 2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Painter and the Engineer

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe they were different: controlled and uncontrollable, predictable and unpredictable, precise and imprecise. But opposites attract, right? And maybe they weren’t so different as they thought.

“Okay, but why paint?” Jean asked, finally pushing away from his project with an exasperated groan.

Marco merely hummed in response, leaning back in his seat to study his canvas, dripping with paint. He chewed his bottom lip and shook his head. “It’s beautiful,” he replied softly.

Jean rose to his feet, stretching his back. He’d been working on this stupid engineering project for what seemed like ten years, and he decided now was as good a time as any to take a break and watch his boyfriend work on his end of year project. “Specific,” he muttered in response to Marco’s soft explanation. Marco just hummed again. “So, what’re you painting this time?”

Marco carefully slid his brush across the canvas, leaving a bright red line through the dark greens and blues. It dripped and ran down the painting, leaving bright streaks, and Marco finally grinned. “Yes,” he hissed quietly, hurriedly dunking his brush in his filthy cup of water. He didn’t answer Jean, and his boyfriend figured it was because he was in a zone.

Instead of demanding an answer, he walked over behind Marco and started to rub his shoulders. The way Marco hummed and rolled his shoulders was addictive. Jean kissed the top of his head. Marco smiled dreamily. “You can kiss my neck,” he told Jean. “I’m almost done for tonight.”

Jean grinned. “Mmm, I like the sound of that,” he breathed, leaning down to mouth softly at the side of Marco’s neck.

Marco melted into the touch, leaning his head back against Jean’s shoulder, as he looked intently at his painting. “It’s imprecise,” he whispered finally. “I can never control where it goes or what it looks like. It’s all… happy accidents. I can guide it, but I… I’ll never have perfect control.” He turned his head to look at Jean and smiled. “And I _love_ that.”

Jean just laughed. “Hmm, and I love you,” he responded, pecking Marco on the lips and making him giggle.

Marco pulled out of Jean’s reach, setting his brush down beside his water cup so that he could cup Jean’s face in his hands. “Okay, and what about you?” he asked, pecking Jean’s lips in return. “Why engineering, hmm?”

Jean snorted. “It’s easy,” he replied cheekily, pushing Marco off his seat so that he could sit next to him. “And precise.”

Marco groaned in exasperation at Jean’s insistence, finally moving off the seat and letting Jean sit so that he could settle down in his lap instead. “Okay, sounds boring already,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around Jean’s neck. “Come on, engineering major, woo me.”

Jean just grinned at Marco, leaving nipping kisses along his jaw. “I don’t need to talk about school to do that,” he teased, one hand sliding up Marco’s side and the other squeezing his thigh.

Marco just laughed, kissing the sensitive skin behind Jean’s ear. “You’re cute.” He leaned back and squinted at Jean. “I think it’s because you like control,” he whispered, smiling softly at him. “You like knowing that there’s a solution to everything.”

Jean merely shrugged. “Maybe,” he answered, getting an exasperated sigh out of Marco. “You know me better than I do.”

The words were true of course, always had been. Marco had always known Jean better than Jean knew himself. He had a nasty habit of always being right.

And when Jean thought about it, maybe he was right again this time.

“It’s like a puzzle,” he whispered finally, softly. “It’s not hard because there’s only one way to answer it, you know? And I know what I’m working towards, none of this…” He gestured to Marco’s painting and smiled softly up at his boyfriend. “Guesswork, you know?”

Marco hummed and nodded. “It figures that we’d be opposites,” he laughed softly. “I love not knowing and you love knowing.”

Jean just grinned. “Opposites attract?” he tried, and Marco laughed.

“Opposites do attract,” he answered.

Jean smiled as he pulled Marco in for a soft kiss, one that quickly deepened and warmed between them. It wasn’t long before Jean was shifting his hips uncomfortably beneath Marco. It only made Marco chuckle as he pulled away. “A little pent up, baby?” he whispered.

Jean shrugged, studying Marco’s lips for a moment before flicking his gaze back up to Marco’s eyes. “Are you offering to help?”

Marco hummed, tapping his chin as if he were thinking long and hard about it. But even as he hummed, he started to shift clumsily around until he was straddling Jean in the chair. “Well,” he sighed, “I _am_ finished painting for today, and you _were_ working hard on your project earlier…”

Jean squeezed Marco’s hips, shamelessly grinding up against his boyfriend. “So?”

Marco laughed softly. “So, I think you deserve a reward,” he whispered before finally leaning down to press his lips warm and wet against Jean’s.

They melted into the kiss easily, hands sliding over sides and into hair, bodies pressing close together. Jean couldn’t remember the last time they’d been intimate, but he craved it. He wanted to remember the feel of Marco beneath his palms, to share his warmth and make him moan. It wouldn’t take much, he knew.

Marco let Jean take control as they rose to their feet, stumbling to the bed and laughing all the way. He lay back comfortably against the soft pillows of their bed. _It’s funny_ , he thought, moaning softly as Jean mouthed against his bared skin. It was funny that this was what he loved most about Jean. Not the fact that he had no control, the thing he loved the most about painting.

What he loved was that Jean was constant. His constant.

He loved that those firm hands on his hips, that wet mouth making him squirm, would never change. He knew the taste of Jean’s lips, the curve of Jean’s tongue, the press of Jean’s palm. His fingers working him open, his length inside him—constant, constant, constant. It was something to hold onto when he felt like he had no control. That he knew Jean, inside and out.

And Jean, God, Jean reveled in every twitch and desperate moan that leaked from Marco’s sweet, parted lips. Because this was what he loved about Marco—that Marco was not a puzzle to be solved. He fell to pieces beneath Jean, and when Jean sorted through them, he found something new to love every time. Yes, the way he arched his back. _Yes_ , the way he dug his nails into Jean’s biceps. _Fuck_ , yes, the way he licked into Jean’s mouth. _God_ yes, the way he murmured love against Jean’s shoulder when all was said and done.

Exciting, it was exciting, got Jean’s blood boiling. The fact that he was in control, but he didn’t ever know what to expect. That was what he loved about Marco, the fact that he fell in love again and again, every single time they touched.

By the time they were coherent, Jean had already found something new to love that he hadn’t noticed before—the way Marco’s body struggled to come all the way down from his high, fingers still trembling as he pulled the blanket up over both of them, holding Jean against his chest.

He ran his fingers through Jean’s sex-tousled hair and whispered, “You have to finish your project by Friday, okay?”

Jean grumbled in response, wrapping his arms tighter around Marco. “Shut up and cuddle me right, Bodt.”

At that Marco laughed and wrapped his legs around Jean’s waist. “What’re you talking about, I’m a master of cuddles,” he teased, pressing warm kisses to Jean’s hair and scalp. “You’re always grumpy after sex, Mr. Grumpy Pants.”

Jean just smiled against Marco’s chest. “Mmm, not grumpy—sleepy.”

“Oh,” Marco murmured, scratching his nails lightly against the coarser hair of Jean’s undercut. The feeling had Jean practically purring. “I get it, you’re a sleepy baby.” He sighed and wriggled down a bit lower, so that Jean’s head rested against his shoulder instead. “Me, too,” he yawned. “Let’s sleep.”

Jean chuckled, pressing a sloppy kiss to Marco’s cheek. “I love you.”

“Love you too, baby.”

It wasn’t long before they fell asleep in each other’s arms, smiling even as they dreamt.


	2. A Little Inspiration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marco's muse is fickle, but somehow Jean always manages to rouse it.

Marco chewed on the end of his paintbrush, tilting his head at the painting before him. He’d been working on it for hours by then, but none of it felt any closer to being finished than when he’d started. Layers and layers of paint dripped and flooded together, evidence of the numerous times he’d changed his mind and painted over a fruitless idea. He felt that if he kept at it, maybe something would come out of it. It couldn’t be too hard.

But he’d already changed the playlist on his iPod three times, and he couldn’t find a mood that worked for him. At the moment something peppy and fast-paced was playing, and despite the bright pinks and blue on his canvas—the shiny yellow dripping from his own brush—he just wasn’t feeling it anymore.

He turned his attention to his iPod again, deciding to flick over to something a little more soothing when without warning, all the lights snapped off. He yelped in surprise, head shooting up to stare at the overhead lamp as if to see what was wrong, but the loud, “FUCK,” that called to him from upstairs answered the question first.

He furrowed his brow, staring up at the ceiling. “Jean?” he called.

“Shit, fucking, cock-sucking son of a bitch!” was his boyfriend’s reply.

Marco resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “Jean?” he called again, picking carefully through the now pitch black basement towards the stairs so he could find the probably fuming man somewhere above him.

He found him easily enough, grumbling to himself as he fiddled with some kind of machine on the kitchen counter. It was dark inside the kitchen as well, the only light a dim glow of sunset from the window above the sink. Marco stood in the doorway for a minute before finally he sighed and headed over to him. “Jean?” he asked, leaning over the counter.

Jean avoided his gaze, mumbling to himself as he cranked some kind of lever on the machine. He waited for a moment, and when nothing seemed to have changed, he screamed through his teeth, finally looking up at Marco. “I fucking hate this stupid inventing thing.”

Marco only shook his head. “No, you don’t, Jean,” he soothed, placing gentle hands over Jean’s. “It’s your dream, baby, you don’t hate it.”

Jean rolled his eyes and shoved the invention away from him. “Yeah, whatever. I fucking hate it.” He hung his head, staring at the hardwood of the counter. “Sorry about the lights.”

Marco squinted at him, and suddenly, his heart fluttered with an idea. He smiled wide. “How long will they be out do you think?” he asked softly.

Jean shrugged. “I don’t even know.” He looked back up at Marco. “It could be a few hou—why are you looking at me like that?”

Marco just grinned wider, his eyes shining almost intimidatingly bright. “I’ve got the absolute best idea.”

Jean had a right to feel suspicious, considering the crazy things Marco had done to him in the past in the name of art. He was fairly certain there was still glitter in his bellybutton from the last venture, and he shuddered to think of another art project. “Best idea, as in…?” he asked hesitantly.

Marco just bit his lip. “I promise it’ll be really fun.”

Jean was still just a bit hesitant, but he gave in after only a moment of hesitation. He figured he owed Marco as much, after shutting the lights off with his stupid machine. And besides, he could hear Marco groaning from downstairs just as well as Marco had heard him screaming about his invention. If Marco had an idea this exciting, who was he to turn him down?

“Okay, okay, what’s the plan?” he asked, rounding the counter and letting Marco herd him out of the kitchen.

“We’re going to the bedroom,” Marco told him, his grin unwavering.

Jean bit his lip around a smirk as he looked back at Marco. “Oh, I guess that is one way to wait out the lights, but you know, you don’t need an excuse if you want me to—“

Marco huffed and rolled his eyes, pushing Jean into their room. “Lie down, I’ve gotta grab some stuff,” he ordered, hurriedly digging through the bedside table.

Jean did as he was told, moving some pillows around and getting comfortable. “So, like, is this something that doesn’t need light or…?” he asked, tilting his head to the side to look at Marco.

Marco hummed in response. “It needs a little light, but nothing the window can’t handle,” he answered, pulling out the tubes of paint he left in the drawer. He remembered with a fond smile the time Jean had been looking for lube and nearly prepped Marco with midnight blue paint. He picked out that tube with different ideas on how to use it. “Take off your shirt for me?” he asked, turning back to Jean.

Jean sat up and pulled his shirt off before laying back down and spreading his arms out to either side as Marco clambered onto the bed beside him. He kept as still as possible; after years of Marco turning his body into an art project, he knew how to be a good canvas. Even as Marco straddled his hips, he just smiled softly up at the slightly disheveled artist.

“So, what masterpiece will I become today, Marco?” he whispered, closing his eyes as Marco set the tubes of paint beside Jean’s ribs.

Marco hummed softly in response. “It’s a surprise,” he whispered back, scooting back a little bit to sit on Jean’s thighs so he could study the frail expanse of Jean’s pale body.

Jean’s body was a canvas just for him, and he almost wanted to paint it in kisses instead of paint. He did just that for a moment, placing a soft kiss to Jean’s bellybutton and feeling him tense and laugh against his lips.

He dabbed paint along Jean’s hips as he leaned back up, creating a little station for blending the colors, and once he was satisfied with his set up, he grabbed his phone and changed the playlist to something softer.

He took a second to let the music flow into him, intense but quiet, and the more he breathed, the more he could feel the inspiration flowing through his veins.

Jean was more than happy to lay back and let his boyfriend layer paint along his body. Marco hummed as he worked, and Jean swore that if he weren’t so in love with painting, the boy could be a singer. The cool slide of a paintbrush along his skin gave him goose bumps, made him shiver, but he was careful to keep his arms spread to either side. It gave Marco more room to work.

“Oh,” Marco breathed, and Jean squinted his eyes open to watch his smile spread across his face. “Jean, this is turning out so beautiful.”

Jean smiled back, closing his eyes again. “’S because you’re the one painting it,” he answered, earning a quick peck to his cheek before Marco went back to work.

The songs playing from Marco’s iPod passed one by one, languid through the darkness. There was no sound between them but the soft squelch of Marco’s paint and the slow breaths they took. Outside the window, the sunset began to fade into nighttime. Marco worked in the moonlight, only inspired more by the cool light of the moon through the blinds.

It seemed like hours before Marco finally sat back and looked at his work. Jean was so still that for a moment, Marco wondered if he’d fallen asleep. “Babe?” he whispered, leaning over him, legs feeling stiff with disuse. “Babe, you awake?”

Jean grinned for a split second before his hands snapped up to cup Marco’s face and pull him into a soft kiss. “Mmm, yeah. What you paint, baby?” he asked, opening his eyes and looking down at himself.

Marco giggled, sitting back up to fumble around for his phone. “The second star to the right,” he sang softly, pulling out his phone to take a picture. He showed the picture to Jean, who smiled at the sight of his own chest painted into a masterpiece of the night sky. “Do you like it?”

Marco’s voice was eager and shy, one Jean was more than used to. He sounded the same every time he showed Jean his art, a tiny voice that begged for approval, and every piece that Jean saw from Marco deserved even more than his praise.

“It’s beautiful,” Jean whispered.

Marco grinned at that and kissed him sweetly again. Somehow Jean always knew what to say to make Marco's art block and doubts fade away. Even if the lights had been an accident, this was no exception. "Thank you," he whispered softly as he pulled away from the kiss.

Jean just grinned, leaning up to kiss Marco's nose. "You're welcome, baby." He glanced down at himself and laughed a bit. "But, let's take a few pictures and then get this off before it dries, kay?"

Marco giggled, pushing himself out of Jean's lap. "Sounds like a plan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based off the same prompt as the first one, Paint/Electric--but I decided I liked this one much better haha. I never published it (I finished it wayyyyy after JM Week ended, but since I posted the first prompt separately, I thought why not add this to make it seven chapters? Yay!


	3. So I Took Your Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every night, Jean disappears into the darkness outside of the barracks, and every night, Marco notices, longing to go after him.

For a while, Marco ignored it, mostly because he and Jean weren’t exactly friends, and he didn’t think he had a place in confronting the boy about it.

Every night, when it was late and dark in the barracks, he would hear the shuffling in the bunk above him, and he’d stare at the bed shift until finally, with an exasperated groan, his bunkmate started to climb down the ladder. Marco would close his eyes tight, in hopes of appearing asleep, and listen to Jean’s retreating footsteps. As the door to the barracks swung shut, he turned his head and stared through the darkness, questioning why he’d disappeared, why he did so every night. But they weren’t even friends, so he really had no room to question.

That didn’t mean it didn’t keep him up at night.

It went on for weeks and then for months, even got to a point where Marco didn’t bother to pretend he was asleep. Jean climbed down the ladder and did a double take when he saw Marco’s shiny brown eyes staring at him through the darkness. They blinked at each other for a moment, and then Jean straightened his back and turned away.

It happened a few times—Marco even dared, once, to ask if he was okay. Jean just said he had to piss and left it at that, although it was clearly a lie.

Early one day, Marco spotted Jean fast asleep across the cafeteria, face in his cereal. Hands curled tight with nerves around his tray, Marco made the trek across the cafeteria to sit beside Jean and gently wake him up.

His head shot up, milk dripping down his face, and Marco started in surprise at the exhausted glare aimed at him. “I-I just…” He bit hard on his lip and looked at his tray. “Shadis would scold you if he saw you asleep.”

But Jean just rolled his eyes and wiped the milk off his face. “I wasn’t asleep—I was resting my eyes.”

Marco had the decency not to laugh, although he smiled cheekily to himself. “Okay,” he whispered, turning his gaze to his own mushy cereal. “Um… My name’s Marco, by the way.”

Jean squinted at the hand Marco offered, as if questioning the brunette’s intention. Finally, he inhaled through his nose and breathed, “Jean,” as he shook Marco’s hand.

Marco marveled at the warm firmness of Jean’s hand around his. His palms were so surprisingly soft, compared to Marco’s own, fieldwork-hardened ones. Marco found himself struck by a sudden surge of insecurity, pulling his hand away a little faster than he needed too.

They ate in relative silence, Jean still squinting at him, and Marco attempting small talk that Jean didn’t seem interested in.

That night, again, Jean stepped down the ladder, and Marco shamelessly watched him go. He longed to go after him and see what it was he did at night.

He sat with him again the next day, and this time Jean seemed more open to conversation.

(That night, he offered Marco a brief nod before turning to go on his way.)

They started to pair up for training, and Jean vowed to one day defeat Marco in hand-to-hand combat, even though usually he approached it with apathy.

(At night, even though Marco was sore, he craned his neck to watch Jean hobble off into the darkness.)

After training, he and Jean laughed together, conversation coming easily, and once, as silence lapped over them, Marco curled up on his side close to Jean and stared at the line of his jaw, the shine in his eyes, the sharpness of his nose… the curve of his lips.

(Jean never smiled at night, when he passed, and once Marco was brave enough to sit up and whisper, “Where are you going?” He didn’t receive an answer.)

Marco learned what it took to hold Jean back from his own anger. He learned the curve of his shoulders under his hands as he did his best to soothe and pry him apart from Eren and anyone else that got on his nerves. He learned what to say to bring reason to Jean’s angry mind. “Why do you let them work you up?” he asked once, but Jean just stared at the grass, chest rising and falling as he panted, and then he shoved Marco aside to storm off.

(Marco tried to hide his face that night, covering it with a blanket when Jean climbed down the ladder, but Jean stopped beside his bed. “Marco?” he whispered, reaching out and pulling the blanket from his face. They stared at each other for a long moment, until Jean finally shook his head and walked away. Marco hugged his pillow for the rest of the night, realizing that he’d been expecting a kiss.)

The next day, he asked. He stopped Jean from running away, cornering him in the storage shed as they both searched for oil to clean their gear. “What is it you do every night?”

Jean stiffened, stretched on his toes to reach the top shelf. He froze, unable to even look at Marco as he grunted, “What?”

Marco could feel the nerves and insecurity building again in his gut, until finally he turned around to face Jean and whispered, “Every night, when everyone’s asleep, you just get up and leave for no reason.”

Jean plopped back down onto his feet, holding out the oil for Marco to see. “Found it,” he whispered, heading for the door.

Marco felt desperate, reaching out to Jean and then curling his calloused hand back to himself before they could touch. “Jean, you know I know about it. Please? Aren’t we friends, just tell me—“

But Jean was already at the door, and as he wrenched it open he turned to glare at Marco. “If we were actually friends then you’d fucking drop it.”

And then he was gone.

(Marco tried to pretend he wasn’t crying that night, and Jean didn’t stop to comfort him before he left into the darkness.)

They stopped talking for a bit, just a few days, until Jean finally murmured that he was sorry. For those few days, everyone questioned what was wrong, if Jean had hurt Marco because of course none of them could imagine it the other way around. It made Marco feel guilty when Jean apologized. “You don’t have to—“ he tried to say, but Jean gritted his teeth and told him to stop.

That night, Marco decided he didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want to stop being Jean’s friend or to stop worrying about what he was doing so late at night. He wanted Jean to know that he cared.

So when Jean crawled down the ladder, and their eyes met, Marco decidedly sat up and followed Jean. To his surprise, Jean didn’t protest or push him away.

Far from the barracks they walked, off into the woods. Neither of them spoke, but Marco looked around in awe at the tall trees around them. Stars were visible through the branches and leaves. The sky looked like paint high above them, and Marco wondered if Jean had ever bothered to look at it all. He seemed intent, eyes focused ahead as they walked.

“It’s beautiful out here,” Marco whispered.

To his surprise, Jean smiled. “It’s better where we’re going.”

They trekked through the darkness for a little while longer and when they finally made it to their destination, Marco felt as if he couldn’t breathe. It was a tiny cliff, looking out over the lake that other kids often played in, showing off the river that flowed into it through the forest. The sky spread before them, more like a painting than it had even seemed before. Marco was mesmerized.

“You… come out here every night?” he whispered.

Jean shrugged, settling down to sit on the edge of the cliff, legs hanging out into the abyss. “Yeah.”

Marco stood awkwardly off to the side, watching the back of Jean’s head carefully. “What do you do?”

Jean shook his head. “Nothing.”

Marco bit his lip and slowly made his way over to sit beside Jean. The warm firmness of Jean’s hand against his ribs to steady him made him shiver. Their thighs pressed firm together. “Why do you come out here?”

“Can’t sleep,” was the simple answer.

They sat in silence for a long while, staring into the darkness together. Marco felt like there were words hanging between them, things neither of them quite knew how to say, and the heaviness made him shrink into himself, looking down at his own feet kicking into the air.

Suddenly, Jean whispered, “You know how Eren is always talking about the Survey Corps? And… saving humanity and all that?”

Marco turned to look at Jean, his outline hard in the darkness, illuminated by the coolness of the moonlight. “Yeah,” he murmured. “What about it?”

Jean gritted his teeth, the shine of them bright in the cold white light of the stars and moon. “I know I act like he’s an idiot, and I talk about how he’s suicidal and all, but…” He swallowed hard and whipped his head back and forth, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Marco was almost afraid he would fall, but he was afraid to reach out as well. “But he’s right, isn’t he?”

Marco kept his voice soft and low, trying to comfort Jean as best he knew how. “What do you mean?” he whispered. “Right about what?”

Jean cursed, scrambling to his feet and walking away from the edge, hands in his hair. “About the fucking Titans, Marco!” he shouted. “We don’t know when it’ll happen next, we don’t know when the walls are going to fall next time, we don’t know when we’re gonna die, and I’m—…“

He stopped there, slowly sinking to his knees, back to Marco, and Marco felt himself trembling just at the sight. “Jean, I…” He didn’t know what to say, but he felt a longing in his chest, a need to help Jean, a need to comfort him. He crawled towards Jean, sitting on his knees in front of him. “I know it’s scary to think about, but we’ll be okay—“

Jean just made a noise of disgust, hunching over even more. “How the fuck do you know that, Marco?”

“I—“

“No, you don’t _know_ that, you don’t know shit.”

Marco shrunk back from Jean’s harsh words. “I…”

He gritted his teeth and shook his head. No, no, he knew that he wanted to help Jean; that was all he needed to know. “Jean, I know I don’t know anything for sure, but I do know that this is what we’re training for. I know that you’re good at this—the 3dmg and fighting and you’re smart.” He swallowed hard, realizing that there were tears starting in his eyes. He hastily rubbed at them, leaning in closer to meet Jean’s eyes and hold them. “I don’t know anything for sure, but I know that I believe in you.”

Jean just stared at him for a long time, his own eyes sparking with unshed tears. Neither of them spoke until he finally whimpered, “I just feel so useless, Marco. I don’t want to feel useless anymore.”

Marco swallowed hard, and before he could talk himself out of it, he reached out and twined his fingers between Jean’s. He tried to ignore the way his heart pounded at the feeling of Jean’s soft palm against his own, the coolness of Jean’s fingers squeezing the back of his hand. “You’re not useless to me, Jean,” he whispered. “I know this is going to sound weird but I… I feel safe with you. I say it all the time, that I think you’re a good leader, and it’s true. Jean, I’d trust you with my life, please don’t feel useless, because you’re not useless to me, and I—“

The warmth of Jean’s chapped lips pressing against Marco’s made him gasp through his nose, but almost instantly his eyes shut tight. The kiss was clumsy, and Marco’s lips trembled with every tender circle of Jean’s mouth against his own, but he held tight to Jean’s hand and even lifted his own free hand to cup Jean’s face.

When they pulled apart, neither of them said anything for a long moment. And then, cautiously, Jean whispered, “Really?”

Marco just smiled and nodded, tears dripping down his face. “Really.”

* * *

Every night after that, Jean snuck into Marco’s bed, and they lay face-to-face, smiling tiredly. They whispered about the future, about the Military Police. They talked about dreams that might come true someday, as long as they were together.

And every night, beneath the covers, Marco made sure that their hands were intertwined between them, palm-to-palm, determined to be Jean’s anchor, his hand to hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favorites of the week, because I am canonverse trainees trash. Also, this was shamelessly written whilst listening to All of the Stars by Ed Sheeran on repeat lol (the title is actually a line from the song). The prompt for this one was Hand to Hold/Vigil. =D


	4. Warrior Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Jean looked at Marco, he still saw the boy he once knew. He’d never changed, still the child soldier from so long ago, a prince now in this world that they’d been reborn into. When Jean looked in the mirror, he found that he’d never changed either–still a boy making up for his mistakes.

“Jean?”

Jean’s eyes trail away from the road just for a moment to flicker over to the boy curled up in the passenger seat beside him. He looks peaceful, if a bit tired. But that’s all Jean sees before he turns his gaze back to the road and the rain splattering against the windshield. “Yes?” he hums, focusing on getting them through the storm safely.

“I had that dream again,” Marco whispers, staring intently out the window into the hazy world beyond. He doesn’t see any of it—all he sees is the memory of his dream projected into the sleet of gray rain outside. “The one with the giants.”

“Titans,” Jean corrects, before he can catch himself. His hands tighten around the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.

Marco doesn’t seem to notice. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It was worse this time.”

He shivers and reaches out to turn up the heat, but Jean’s hand slaps his hand away. “It’ll fog up the windows,” Jean explains and then gestures to the floor of the car. “Use my jacket.”

Marco sighs and pauses for a moment to rub at his burning eyes. The time is displayed dimly on the dashboard of the car—4 AM. “You’ve been driving for hours,” he whispers, finally leaning over to wrestle Jean’s jacket out from underneath his feet. “You should give me a turn—“

Jean just snorts, a vague but affectionate smile on his face. “Hmm, no, I remember the time you crashed the limo, Little Prince. I’m not tired enough for that.”

Marco blushes at his old nickname and hurriedly shrugs the jacket on. It’s so warm, and it smells vaguely of Jean, just like the rest of the car. Sharp and warm, inviting in a dangerous way. Cinnamon, he thinks, the kind you taste on Red Hots or toothpaste. It lingers.

He’s always felt that way about Jean.

“You’re never tired,” he whispers in response, snuggling into Jean’s jacket. It’s a little too big for him, and he loves it even more for that. “It’s creepy.”

Jean laughs at that, softly, quietly. It surrounds Marco, hazy but in a different way than the rain outside. “It means I can always keep an eye on you,” he answers. “That’s my job after all, isn’t it?”

Marco sighs, leaning against the window again. He lifts his feet up onto the edge of the seat, curling his legs against his chest. “And here I thought it was because we were friends,” he teases, but there’s a kind of ache in his chest. He knows he’s setting up Jean’s answer, but he can’t help but wish Jean would correct him.

“Best friends,” Jean replies.

Marco wishes he would say, “No, not friends—different than that.” But it’s wishful thinking, and Marco bites his lip. Jean’s his bodyguard, and he’s lucky they’re even friends. He really shouldn’t push it.

As he closes his eyes, the lingering tendrils of a mysterious dream threaten his consciousness. He jolts and sits up again, groaning before he relaxes into the seat. He turns his head to look at Jean—at the hard line of his jaw, the strong set of his shoulders. He loses himself in the part of Jean’s thin, chapped lips. He admires the sharp incline of his long nose.

He remembers underneath the man before him the bonier, youthful face of a boy from a dream. A cocky grin replacing the firm set of his mouth. A messy undercut replacing the well-kept style of Jean’s hair.

“In the dream,” he begins, not thinking about what he’s saying, “You’re younger than me.” He laughs softly, pulling Jean’s jacket firmer around himself. “Can you believe that? And I’m the calmer, steadier one. It’s weird, like I hold you back from fights and stuff.”

Jean doesn’t reply, except for an imperceptible twitch of his lips. So Marco continues, eyebrows furrowed as he remembers. It’s intense, vivid the way the memories flood him. It’s as if he’s remembering something that _happened_ , something _real_ , not some dream.

“I remember one time I held you back, and I could feel you shaking. And… and it wasn’t from anger or-or something like that. You were scared. And hurt. You’d… you’d just run over and decked some guy, and you were yelling.” Marco closes his eyes and bit his lip as he recalled. “We were in this building, and I think we were… we were hiding. From the giants—“

“Titans,” Jean corrects, voice strained.

Marco opens his eyes and studies Jean intently. He feels sometimes this hollowness in his chest when he remembers his dreams. And when Jean corrects him, he wonders if Jean feels that hollowness too. But how could he? These are Marco’s meaningless dreams—that’s something Jean never hesitates to remind him of.

“And you were scared,” Marco continues softly, turning his head again to look out the window. The rain hasn’t let up. He wonders if it ever will. “And I was scared too. We were lowered down on this elevator, holding guns to blind the Titans whilst you and some others were supposed to kill them with the weapons. I remember being terrified, but forcing myself to keep my voice steady, because if one of us messed up, we would all die. So I didn’t let myself be scared. I locked it away and just focused on being brave…” He hummed. “I think I was channeling you.”

“Is that so?” Jean chuckled, but he sounded like he was on the verge of tears, voice thick.

Marco smiled, staring out the window and seeing his dream Jean smiling up at him from between decaying Titans, smiling a terrified smile. He remembers smiling back and then wavering on his feet, tipping backwards into someone’s arms as he let fear overcome him for a split second until he was fine again.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I really want to… to protect everyone.”

Jean’s hand slides against his thigh, briefly, fleetingly, enough to get Marco to turn to him. The moment Marco’s attention is on him, his hand returns to the steering wheel, knuckles white as he tightens his grip. “That’s not your job, Marco,” he reminds him. “You’re a prince, your job is to stay safe.”

Marco shakes his head. “I meant in the dream—“

“It is my job to protect you,” Jean interrupts, his voice firm and unwavering, despite the sparkle of tears in his eyes.

He doesn’t shed them. He never cries, or so Marco thinks. Jean Kirschtein is a strong, checked man. He never cries, never feels pain. Marco doesn’t know that the man he looks up to—the man he admires, longs to be touched by—never grew up from the boy in his dreams. A thousand years, a million universes, and Jean Kirschtein is still just the same. Still shaking with fear.

“I know,” Marco whispers, in his ignorant little voice, and Jean thinks to himself, _it’s better this way_.

“And I will protect you,” he continues. _This time_ , he doesn’t add.

“I know,” Marco repeats, his fingertips sliding warmly against Jean’s arm before he shyly pulls it away.

Jean swallows hard, still staring ahead. He can’t look over at his Little Prince, afraid that he’ll see the child soldier he failed. “I’m serious, Marco,” he hisses, his voice intense. “I’m not fucking around, okay? I… This isn’t like your dream, I know, and we’re not soldiers, and there aren’t any monsters—“

“Titans,” Marco corrects, his voice a hesitant laugh, and Jean’s lips just tremble.

“But I’ll fight for you,” he continues, letting his voice out on a breath. “I’ll be your… your personal warrior, just like I always have been, and I’ll always come to you when you call my name. For you, Marco.”

Marco goes silent, staring at Jean with sparkling eyes. He sniffs, rubs at the tears he’s on the verge of shedding. “You get so intense at night, Jean,” he laughs wetly, leaning back into his seat. “I love talking to you this late.”

Jean forces himself to chuckle and shakes his head, his hand shooting out so that he can brush his knuckles softly against Marco’s cheek. “You should get back to sleep,” he whispers. “You’ve got a long day ahead of you.”

Marco yawns, curling up again in Jean’s jacket. “Hmm, but what about when we get to the hotel? We should be there in like an hour, right?”

Jean waves his hand in dismissal. “I’ll carry you up.” Shooting a tiny smirk Marco’s way, he flexes his biceps, just to see the way Marco’s face lights up with a blush. “Nothing I haven’t done before.”

Marco giggles nervously and leans against the window. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Okay.”

Jean glances over at Marco once, to study his resting face as the dim lights of streetlamps flash against his skin. Freckles litter his face, his hair parted the same way Jean remembers. He hasn’t changed, still so warm and soft and happy. Still gentle and loving. He’s still a child at heart, and Jean tells himself it’s better this way. It’s better that Marco never remembers that his dreams aren’t just dreams. Jean promised to protect him, and if his memories could hurt him, then it’s just one more thing to protect him from.

He turns his gaze back to the highway stretched far before them. This late at night, nothing feels particularly real. Hazy. Cold. Nothing seems to exist outside of the car; it’s just him and his charge, his Little Prince, his Marco.

“Jean?” Marco murmurs sleepily.

“Yes?” Jean whispers back.

“Can I call you Warrior Man? Since you always call me Little Prince. I think I’m in need of a comeback.”

Jean laughs at that, loud and real, and Marco chuckles weakly in response. “Yeah,” Jean laughs, grinning out at the road before them. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now tHIS is my favorite of the week!!! I love this AU with a burning passion, lemme tell you. The prompt for this one was: Warrior/Call My Name. Urgh, older brooding Jean is my life blood, yes please. Also reincarnation? Always good. /Always/.


	5. The One Who Remembers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I remember everything, and you're not the same as you used to be.

I know Jean’s there from the sound of his footsteps against the concrete behind me, but I don’t turn to face him. I’m okay. I’m okay, I don’t need him.

I keep my eyes focused steadily on the sky above us. Back in Jinae, it was so beautiful—swirling galaxies almost visible behind the haze of air pollution, stars shining through the night like beacons, waiting for me to chase them.

Here in Sina, the stars are dull and dim. I feel, sometimes, like I’ve chased these stars as far as I can chase them, and I’m stuck here now, realizing that the dreams I chased were nothing more than wisps of something I wanted more than I understood.

God, I get poetic when I’m sad.

“Marco,” Jean whispers, and I flinch at the sound of his raspy voice.

Why does he smoke in this life? Why does he do that, he’s killing his lungs, I hate it—I hate that I know who he was in another life better than I know him now. They’re the same person, but he’s different now, and I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t—

“It’s cold out here, you’re gonna get sick,” he advises, walking just a bit closer to where I’m sitting on the edge of the roof. “And you’re gonna fall.”

I look down to the world far, far below me. Ironically, it’s brighter than the sky up above me. The sound of sirens and horns honking sound up to me, faint but blaring. I kick my feet, wonder if I knocked one of my shoes off, where would fate take it?

“Marco, just _say_ _something_ ,” he hisses finally, stomping over to me and stopping beside me.

I can feel his presence more than I see it, because I’m so busy looking down at the sparkle of a street littered with cars and cigarettes. (I hate them, I hate cigarettes, I can smell the secondhand smoke off of Jean’s cigarette and I want it gone, I can remember the taste of shotgunning with him that one night when he wrenched my lips against his with a hand in my hair, and I hate, I hate it, I hate that he never wants to talk about it, I hate that he hasn’t kissed me again, I hate that I feel like he thinks of it as an _accident_ —)

“Were the stars brighter back then?” I choke finally, scraping my nails against the concrete beside my thigh. I tilt my head back to stare up at the sky and swallow hard. “They must have been. Without all the factories and electricity and all.”

Jean groans softly, before putting one hand on my shoulder and sinking down to sit beside me. I move my hands into my lap—away from him. “You and Armin were the stargazers,” he answered, his hand pressing firmly into the thin strip of space between our thighs. He spreads his fingers and the tips brush along my leg. I tense, and he curls his fingers into a fist.

“You never cared about the sky,” I whisper. “I remember.”

Jean sighs. “Yeah, you do.”

I feel like it’s a definition of this me. It’s all I am. The one who remembers. I remember, remember everything, and I shouldn’t.

I pitch forward, elbows on my knees, and Jean shoots out an arm to keep me from falling off. I cling to it and feel the tears begin to come. “Why do I remember?” I choke. “Why do I remember, I never asked for this, I don’t want to remember anymore, Jean—”

He curses under his breath, and there’s the faint scratch of his cigarette being put out before he grabs me under the arms and drags me away from the edge. He cradles me against his chest—and I’m struck for an instant how appropriate the word is. He _cradles_ me, holds me as if I were fragile, on the verge of breaking. His hands run through my hair, and he coos soothingly to me. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “Oh, God, Marco, I’m sorry. I wish I could take it all.”

I just shake my head, shake against him. He can’t. I’m the one who remembers, the anachronistic piece of the past.

I am an atlas of memories, and no matter how much I want him to, he can’t take that from me. Can’t save me from the memories I never wanted.

It’s a long while before I calm down enough to close my eyes and only hear the faint rasp of air through his lungs. There’s nothing much left to say, but the silence hurts more than empty words do.

“I wish you didn’t smoke in this life,” I murmur. My voice sounds as raspy as his does.

He doesn’t chuckle or play it off, like he usually does. He runs his fingers through my hair instead and whispers, “I’m sorry.” As if that’s what I want to hear.

Maybe it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thiiiiiiis is actually a piece from an AU idea that's been bouncing around in my head for a very, very long time (few months now). But! I really want to finish ASO before chasing this idea, so enjoy this little taste. ;D This was based off the prompt: Apologies/Tearstained. It was going to be longer and more dramatic lol, but I feel like this is good. Idk. I like what it is now.


	6. Summer Dreams, Ripped at the Seams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Jean met Marco that fateful summer day, he thought his dreams had come true–a hot summer fling, easy come, easy go. But summer was ending, and going was hard.

“Fuck.” Smoke billowed from the engine as Jean stared at it in defeat. “Ugh,” he groaned, leaning heavily onto his hands before decidedly slamming the hood shut and lifting his arms to cover his head with his jacket again. “Fuck, I can’t believe this.”

Marco sat still in the passenger seat of Jean’s beaten up car, watching curiously through the smoke to Jean’s hazy figure. Rain pounded on the roof, making it hard to hear anything Jean was saying, but he squinted and tried to read Jean’s lips anyway. He shook his head and sighed, shrugging in way of telling Jean that he couldn’t hear a word he was saying.

His head followed Jean as he shuffled through the rain to Marco’s window. He carefully rolled it down, leaning forward to hear his words.

“It’s fucked,” Jean groaned into the slit between the window and the roof. “We’re gonna need a mechanic.”

Marco sighed again, his lips forming a tiny pout. “Oh,” he murmured, looking away from Jean. “Okay…”

He went silent again, and Jean swore under his breath. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, goddammit. This was it, the last date he would have with Marco, and it was already ruined. He pounded his fist once against the car before saying, “Just try and relax, I’ll call the mechanic, tell him to hurry.”

But Marco still didn’t say anything, staring past Jean into the rainy world beyond him. Jean chewed his lip, struggling to find the words. Summer romance, he’d whispered into his pillows one night as he thought about the silly smile he’d rung out of Marco months before. Summer romance, warm and quick—gone as fast as it came. Easy.

It wasn’t easy anymore.

“I know we’re gonna miss the movie, but I mean… we get to hang out a little longer, don’t we?” he tried, flashing Marco a nervous smile.

Marco’s eyes flickered up to Jean, awash with a misty sadness and a deep, loving warmth. It took Jean’s breath away, and he swallowed hard. Finally, Marco smiled. “Do something crazy with me?” he asked as he slowly popped the door open.

Jean backed away from the door as Marco opened it and then slipped out. The rain was pouring, drenching Marco almost instantly, but he just laughed and spread his arms. “It’s so cold!” he laughed.

Jean shook his head in disbelief. “Are you insane, you’re gonna get sick, you nerd,” he laughed in response, hurriedly reaching towards Marco and pulling him close to huddle under his jacket.

But Marco just threw his arms around his neck. “Put your jacket down and dance with me?” he asked, his voice soft, barely audible above the pouring rain.

But Jean heard it, oh he heard it, and without hesitation, he dropped his jacket’s cover and wrapped his arms around Marco’s waist. “You’re insane,” he whispered, leaning around to nip at Marco’s earlobe, and Marco shivered and grinned, holding him close.

“Absolutely crazy,” he replied, before shifting his hips and leaning back to smile at Jean. “Now _dance_ with me.”

The peals of their laughter filled the air as they twirled in clumsy circles in the rain. Soaked and dripping wet, neither of them seemed to care how cold it was, because the space where their bodies pressed together was warm. Somehow, Jean found Marco’s hand and squeezed it, and he pulled him around in some crude attempt at a waltz as he began to sing.

“L is for the way you look at me!”

Marco’s eyes lit up, his heart sped. “Jean, this is my favorite song!” he breathed.

Jean stole a tiny kiss from his lips, smiled. “Yeah, I remembered—O is for the only one I see.”

Marco rested his head on Jean’s shoulder, smiling wide and feeling content, even when assaulted by rain. “V is very, very extraordinary,” he hummed along.

“E is even more than anyone that you adore,” Jean finished, and together they hummed the continuation of the song, voices soft and harmonized.

This would be the last time, Jean remembered. He couldn’t think about the puddles marking his jeans, couldn’t think about the water drenching his clothes, or the smoke billowing from his car. All he could think about was the way Marco felt, pressed against him and humming, _happy_.

He pulled away from Marco, just a bit, and their eyes met for a moment. He swallowed, his eyes straying down from Marco’s melting gaze to the gentle part of his lips. Soft and full, shining wet from the rain. Irresistibly pink, framed with freckles.

To his surprise, it was Marco that initiated the kiss with a frantic hum. His hands moved up to tangle in the longer locks of Jean’s undercut, and Jean’s arms tightened lovingly around his waist. Everything was wet, their clothes sticking together, their skin sliding against each other. It was a wrestle for Jean to slide his hands down and cup Marco’s thighs before wrenching him up into the air to wrap his legs around his waist.

They’d never really gone this far before, despite the months of summer fling—dates and laughter and the occasional kiss goodnight, but this was more passionate and needy than it had ever been before.

Jean fumbled with the car door, wet hand slipping until Marco reached down and opened it for him, allowing them both to scramble into the passenger seat.

Clumsily, Marco straddled Jean’s hips as Jean wrenched the door shut, effectively cutting off the rain.

And there they paused.

Their eyes met again, and this time there were nerves hanging between them, heavy words left unsaid. Last time. Last date. Last goodbye. It figured their last time should be their first time—a taste of what could have been to tide them over for the years they would spend without each other. Something to look back on and laugh at when they were older and living their lives.

Everything leading up to that moment had been ephemeral, a dreamlike trance. Nothing had felt real.

But Marco’s thighs spanning his lap, and Marco’s hands twitching nervously against his chest, and Marco’s forehead pressed against his, and Marco’s breath gracing his lips… it felt real. It felt real and perfect. Solid and _there_.

Jean’s hand trailed up to the back of Marco’s head, cradling it as he moved up to kiss Marco again, this time slower, warmer, more intense. And Marco melted into it, lips plush against Jean’s, moving in timid circles. At the press of Jean’s tongue against the seam of his lips, he moaned and shifted in Jean’s lap, making them both hiss with pleasure. Jean’s free hand slid down Marco’s side to press against the small of his back.

Their tongues met, and their hearts sped, and Jean realized that he could taste the rain on Marco’s mouth. And he liked the flavor, craved more of it.

When his mouth slipped away from Marco’s, he made quick work of trailing down to the side of his neck, kissing the raindrops that had gathered on his skin. Marco’s skin was as sweet as his lips, and Jean decided he could live off the rainwater littering his throat and shoulders just like his freckles. Marco just mewled at the insistent kisses, hands tightening in Jean’s shirt.

At first it was just Jean’s hands hiking Marco’s shirt up over his hips, but soon Marco’s hands joined him and then his shirt was off, thrown in the backseat to be forgotten. They paused there again, an admiration of Marco’s bare skin, of the freckles that dripped down his body, of the faint muscles that graced his sides, of the trail of dark curls that led into the hem of his jeans.

“You’re so beautiful,” Jean whispered—no, choked, really. And then he was in tears.

“No, shh,” Marco murmured, kissing the tears from Jean’s cheeks as he cupped his face. “Shh, shh, it’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Jean gasped, chest heaving as he started to sob. “It’s not okay, I’m never gonna see you again, _fuck_ —I can’t do this, Marco.”

Marco shook his head. “We don’t have to, it’s okay,” he comforted.

Jean growled low in his throat, hands grasping Marco’s hips to drag him against him again. “No, no, I want to—to do _this_ , I mean…” He gritted his teeth, turning his face up to Marco’s, tears dripping down his temples and into his hair. “I can’t lose you. I don’t want you to go, I want you to stay, please—“

Marco just shook his head again, wrapping his arms around Jean’s shoulders. He cooed softly into Jean’s hair, “It’s okay, it’s okay, baby, it’s okay…”

“Stay,” Jean choked, “Please stay…”

Marco sighed, running his hand through Jean’s hair. “You know I can’t,” he whispered. “I have to leave at the end of the summer, you know that.”

“I want you to stay,” Jean whimpered. He kissed at Marco’s skin wherever he could reach. “Or I want to go with you.”

Marco laughed thickly, sniffed. “I wish you could. I’d take you away to art school with me and show you off to all my friends.”

Jean pressed his forehead to Marco’s shoulder and chewed angrily at his lower lip before finally, he moved to kiss more insistently at Marco’s body again. “I’ll pack myself up for you,” he whispered, pulling Marco down into his lap again before stealing another heated kiss from Marco’s lips.

Marco’s body fell into it again, fingers lacing through Jean’s hair. “I’ll drop everything,” Jean insisted, nails digging into Marco’s hips and making him gasp wetly into the kiss. “I’ll save up.” Marco pulled at Jean’s shirt until it was off and their bodies met again. “I’ll fly across the country.” Hastily, they unbuttoned each other’s pants, gasping into each other’s mouths. “I want to be with you.”

Marco shivered and trembled against Jean’s body as he slipped his jeans down his thighs and then, slowly, his boxers followed along. Jean moaned at the sight of him, vulnerable and shaking in his lap, breathing his name as if it were a prayer. “You too,” he whispered, pushing insistently at Jean’s jeans and boxers until they were off, and they slid hot and wet against each other.

Marco whimpered as Jean’s hand slid against his heated skin, not so much kissing Jean as he was panting against his mouth. “I’ll miss you,” he gasped. “I’ll miss you so much.”

Jean just moaned, shaking his head hastily until he grabbed Marco’s chin and stared into his eyes. “We’re gonna meet again, Marco. This is… This isn’t some… some once in a lifetime thing—it’s a lifetime thing, it’s not gonna end here.”

It was Marco’s turn to cry, kissing clumsily at Jean’s face, his jaw, his neck and shoulders. “I love you,” he choked, his voice coming out on a moan and a sob as he pushed himself as close to Jean as he could get. “Please, please…” He pulled away just a bit to press his forehead against Jean’s again, eyes closed and lips hanging open. “Make love to me,” he pleaded, his voice so soft and wispy in the air between them. “Jean, make love to me, I love you, please, please, I—“

And Jean was nodding, Jean was digging desperately for lube or lotion or something and his wallet for a condom—and they scrambled into the backseat, hands sliding and gripping, bumping heads and dragging out moaning laughs.

And although he was still crying just a little, Marco soon lay on his back with Jean between his thighs, his wet skin sticking to the upholstery as he moaned Jean’s name. “I love you,” he keened, “I love you, Jean, I love you.”

 

Later, when the sun broke through the clouds, they were still naked and warm, wrapped up in each other. Marco slept peacefully, lips parted as he breathed, face calm and eyes tearless as if he weren’t leaving in two days.

Jean watched him sleep, wiping hair from his eyes and kissing his forehead. “I love you too,” he whispered, holding Marco close. “I love you too.”

Marco murmured in his sleep, curling into Jean’s heat. Two days, they only had two days left. But Jean promised himself that it wouldn’t be their last days together. They were so much more than just some summer fling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another of my favorites of the week and actually the first one I wrote lol. The prompt was: Summer Loving/Raindrops. The title is from that song from Grease lol.


	7. Hero Syndrome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He'll keep the trophy between his shirt and his skin, where it'll only scratch him and no one else. He wonders where Jean keeps his...

I don’t know why Jean brought me here. Class is about to start, and although I know he doesn’t go to school anymore (he wears his high school drop out status like a badge), I don’t particularly want to lose my clean attendance record. I’ve only got a month till school ends after all, for good this time until college, and that record will be immortalized with a shiny certificate that will make my mom smile.

But I stay. I stay and stare at Jean as he turns his back to me and fiddles with his bag, dropping miscellaneous artifacts on the ground. A tiny glass bottle filled with black blood that shimmers as it falls; a heap of fabric, tied into knots; an assortment of bones, clattering to the floor with a rattle that makes me grimace.

I think, to someone who didn’t know the truth, Jean’s bag of things would seem to belong to some arts and crafts student who was into witchcraft.

I know better.

“Jean, you’re making a mess,” I mutter.

He looks back at me to rolls his eyes. “I’ll clean it up later,” he responds, and then makes a sound in the back of his throat almost like a cat—clearly pleased with himself.

He turns to me then, and I let out an involuntary gasp at what I see hanging from his hands. “Is that…?”

He grins, holding the necklace out to me. It’s a simple rope of black leather, and on the very end hangs a bleached bone, hooked at the end and serrated on one side—a claw. “From your first kill. Do you like it?”

I look up at Jean with shock in my eyes. Months before, when I’d asked him to teach me how to fight the monsters, I’d been naïve. I’d thought it would be easy—despite having seen the monsters before, I’d thought it wouldn’t be real.

But now…

“Why did you make this?” I ask.

The bell begins to ring—class is going to start soon and I’m not in my seat.

I don’t make a move to leave.

He looks down at the necklace and then slowly lowers it into one palm. The leather pools and the claw drops heavily on top of it. “It’s tradition,” he explains. “The mentor gives the claw of their student's first kill to their student. It’s not always a necklace—sometimes it’s just a straight up claw, but I… I wanted you to be able to keep it close to you.”

I don’t budge. “Why?”

_Why would I ever want to remember—didn’t you hear me when I said I wanted to quit—you were so close to—_

He goes silent then and looks up at me with those sharp, bright eyes of his. I remember what they look like when they’re desperate, when he’s in the grasp of the beast, when he’s telling me to run away, when there’s only five seconds left—

“Because you need to remember that you can do this,” he states simply, and then with his free hand he’s wrenching me forward by the collar and forcefully shoving me around. “You need to remember the adrenaline that got you through the fear.” The leather feels hot around my throat, and my lips start to tremble when I feel the press of the claw against my Adam’s apple. It loosens though, falls down my chest far enough to be easily hidden in the collar of my shirt—right over my heart. “You need to remember that you’re not helpless—you killed that monster, Marco, just you. You…” His voice wavers for a moment and then strengthens again. “You saved my life.”

The press of the knot and the brush of his fingers against the back of my neck make my heartbeat calm down. The memories aren’t as hazy if I concentrate, and when I concentrate, they aren’t as scary.

“I saved your life,” I whisper, repeating it to myself because I need to hear it again—that I, Marco Bodt (honor student, pushover, _coward),_ saved someone’s life.

This is why. I remember it now even more vividly than I do that first battle: this feeling in my chest is why I wanted to become a monster hunter in the first place. Helping people. _Saving_ people.

“Do you regret it?” Jean whispers suddenly, and I wonder when his hands left the back of my neck.

I turn slowly, pressing my hand to the claw hanging down against my heart. “Saving you?” I murmur, my eyes centered on the cup of my hand over the serrated edge.

He laughs at that. “Deciding to fight these things,” he corrects, his voice soft.

I think about it for a minute. The answer sits on my tongue and aches in my throat. Is it even what he wants to hear?

I look up at him finally, eyes narrowed and stomach churning. I hope I look determined and not like I’m about to be sick. What if I say yes? What if I back out for good this time? Hand Jean the claw—“my trophy”—and walk away forever? Never fight another monster again for as long as I live, never feel scared again for as long as I live?

A normal life like I’d always expected to live before I met Jean Kirschtein.

“No,” I answer.

Everything is still for a moment as he studies me. He looks a million years older for a moment. “You should get to class,” he whispers finally, and it’s only then that I remember my perfect attendance record has officially been tarnished.

I nod, quickly tucking the necklace under my collar. “I’ll—“ I stop and look at him finally, catching his eyes with my own. “I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

I don’t wait for him to reply before picking my backpack up and racing away. If I hurry, maybe my teacher will have mercy and erase the tardy.

But as I begin to leave, I hear Jean whisper, “You’re a shit liar, Marco Bodt.”

And maybe I am. But the only one I need to convince is myself anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is based off a Monster Hunter AU I never got around to writing! This one is based on the prompt: Gifts/Regrets.
> 
> And that's all folks! =DD I hope you liked it! Here's to next JM Week (or Bottom Bodt week is coming up tomorrow so~~)

**Author's Note:**

> Finally posting my JeanMarco Week 2015 prompts~ (what's that? I'm procrastinating on cleaning my room? Nonsense!)
> 
> If you like this and want to see more of my writing, feel free to check out my writing sideblog novelistangel.tumblr.com! =D Thank you so much for reading, and please if you liked, leave a comment or a kudos! =DD


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